


But They Would Live

by Lykegenia



Series: Rosslyn Cousland [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dragon Age Quest: The Landsmeet, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, King Alistair, Marriage Proposal, Shameless Canon Fix, Warden Alistair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 00:48:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11093433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykegenia/pseuds/Lykegenia
Summary: What really should have happened at the Landsmeet, and afterwards.a.k.a 'And Nobody Had To Do The Dark Ritual, Hooray!'





	But They Would Live

Silence fell over the Landsmeet. The last echoed clangs of steel and shouting faded into the rafters. Alistair stood, breathing hard, his sword steady in his grip and his knees locked to stop them trembling from exhaustion, all too aware of the eyes upon him, regarding him the way a cat regards a wound ball of string.

The fight had been brutal; despite his age and his outdated armour, Loghain had punched with the force of a bull, driving the younger man back in obvious hopes of a quick victory. But not for nothing had Alistair battled ogres and spent months training with warriors who had shown him the value of speed and precision over brute strength. And so the fight had ended with the disgraced Hero of River Dane on his knees, knocked down by a well-timed shield bash that had caught him off-balance and open to a blow from the sword once wielded by his oldest friend. His helmet had rolled across the flagstones, blood dribbled from a split lip and washed his right arm with crimson, but still his lip thinned in a sneer, as if there wasn’t a blade at his throat – as if the victory was _his_.

“So, there is some of Maric in you after all.” The old man grinned. “Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Get it over with, if you’re going to kill me.”

Alistair sucked in a deep breath through his nose. This was the usurper who had betrayed the king and left the Grey Wardens to die, who had then started a civil war in the middle of a Blight and would have let Ferelden fall entirely into ruin. He glanced around at the circle of nobles – at Eamon, who could not quite hide the savage, triumphant curl of his mouth, and at Anora, who hovered at the front of the crowd, her face a mask of stone. If not for everything she had done, if not for the battle-heat still raging in his blood, Alistair might have felt a twinge of pity for her.

And there, at his right hand, Rosslyn. She had been magnificent addressing the nobles, her voice carrying through the hall like the first birdsong on a dark morning. Not even when Loghain had towered over her and spat accusations in her face had she been cowed – she had only turned from him in dismissal, full of grace, and woven such an argument that even Gwaren’s staunchest lackeys had hesitated in defending their lord. And then she had stepped aside to let him fight, to offer him the same closure she had found with Howe, hiding her worry behind the lopsided smirk and the laconic tilt of her head that had first made him love her all those months ago.

She nodded ever so slightly, her grey eyes bright on his.

“Forget Maric,” Alistair spat, turning back to Loghain. “This is for Duncan.” He drew the blade back, ready for the swing. The nobles tensed, Anora whimpered –

“Wait!”

As one, the nobles turned to the source of the interruption, and parted for the lean, haggard figure who came panting into the hall.

Rosslyn’s fingers dropped from her sword. “Riordan.”

“Riordan?” Alistair repeated. “The Warden imprisoned by Howe?”

“It is good to see you again, sister.” Riordan inclined his head. “I am glad you made it out of Howe’s dungeon in one piece.”

“I might say the same,” Rosslyn replied, imitating the gesture.

“I went to find you at Arl Eamon’s estate, but a servant told me you were already here,” he explained. “I am here on urgent Warden business.”

“Can’t it wait?” Eamon snapped.

“No, it cannot.” Riordan glanced between the two Wardens in front of him before fixing his gaze on Alistair. “What I have to tell you is of the utmost importance. You must believe me – you will regret it if you do not listen to me.”

Alistair frowned, a suspicion forming in his mind, but nevertheless he lowered his sword.

“Someone see to it _Teyrn_ Loghain stays put,” he said, with as much authority as he could muster. Before they had left the estate, Eamon had warned him not to make it look like anyone was giving him orders. It seemed to work, and after guards stepped forward to flank the still-kneeling regent, he led the way out of the hall to what he hoped was an antechamber and not a broom cupboard. Rosslyn marched half a pace behind him, but he fought back the impulse to reach out and take her hand while they were still in sight of those that might use the gesture against them – Eamon had warned him about that, too.

Then the door of the antechamber slammed shut behind them, and Alistair found his patience had worn thinner than anticipated. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Rosslyn next to a wide window set into the north side of the room, and felt her tension in the rigid line of her back and the haughty tilt of her chin.

“You want us to let him live,” she said in a voice like ice.

Riordan glanced warily between the two of them, choosing his words. In the bright light, the pallor of long incarceration was easy to see under the ochre shade of his skin, and with it, the fine tracery of black veins that had started to creep up the length of his neck.

“The teyrn is a warrior and a general of renown,” he explained, nodding. “Let him be of use – let him go through the Joining.”

“Absolutely not!” Alistair’s face wrinkled in a snarl. “How can you even suggest that? That man left our brothers to die and then blamed _us_ for the deed! He hunted us down like animals – he tortured you!”

“We need as many Grey Wardens –”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to this.” Alistair shrugged off the concerned touch Rosslyn lay over his arm and stomped to the window, hoping the view over the harbour might calm him down, or else show him that he was in the Fade and everything Riordan had just said was part of some awful nightmare. He felt his lover’s eyes linger on him, but refused to turn around. He could imagine how she looked when she rounded instead on Riordan, nostrils flared and eyes narrowed in the way that could make even hardened criminals snivel like children.

“Why do we need him?” she demanded. “After everything he’s done – what good is one more Grey Warden against a horde of darkspawn? We already have an army – dwarves, mages, even the Dalish have pledged to join us. What is one man when counted against all of that?”

Riordan sighed. “I feared this might be. You are both new to the Grey Wardens – were you told how an archdemon is slain?”

“You mean there’s more to it than just, say, chopping off its head?” Alistair sniped from his place by the window.

“Have you ever wondered _why_ the Grey Wardens are needed to defeat the darkspawn?” Riordan asked. He looked at Rosslyn as he spoke, having decided she was the least stubborn of the two.

“The taint,” she replied. “It allows us to sense them.”

“And much more than that.” He raked his hands through his hair, trying to dredge up the words his own mentor had used for him when he had learned the last and darkest secret of their order – the true meaning of their motto. He paced as he told them, because watching his feet was easier than watching realisation dawn on the faces of the two Wardens who seemed younger than he himself could ever remember being.

“…The essence of the archdemon cannot survive the transfer into the new body… but neither can the soul of the Grey Warden,” he finished, coming to a halt.

Alistair had stepped away from the window. “Meaning… the Grey Warden who kills the archdemon… dies?” He glanced sideways, but Rosslyn was staring empty-eyed at the flagstones, eyebrows knotted in disbelief, folded in over herself like someone had punched her in the stomach.

“Yes,” Riordan answered. “Without the archdemon, the Blight ends. It is the only way.” He paused. “If possible, the final blow should be mine to make. I am the eldest, and the taint will not spare me much longer. But if I fail, it must be one of you. That is why I asked you to let Teyrn Loghain undertake the Joining; the more of us there are, the more chance we have of stopping the Blight before it spreads throughout Ferelden and beyond.”

“What about Orlais?” Rosslyn’s voice had never been so small, so lost. “At Ostagar, King Cailan said there were Wardens waiting in Orlais.”

“There is snow in the Frostbacks, and the archdemon is already on the move. They would not make it in time.”

“So it has to be one of us,” Alistair murmured.

“Yes.”

The air crackled. Alistair’s mind whirled, shying away from the truth he had denied all along but which had always lurked in the recesses of his thoughts, behind every wide swing, every near miss that had allowed them to get even this far. He couldn’t breathe. When he reached out for Rosslyn, she flinched away from him and he pulled his hand back as if burned.

“I am sorry to be the bearer of such news,” Riordan offered. “But you had to be told. I will wait in the hall for your decision.”

The Warden left without another word, and in his wake silence crowded in from the corners of the room. Alistair watched him go. Rosslyn had shuffled noiselessly over to the wall, leaning a hand against it like a drunkard with her face turned into the stone, and he could find no words to comfort her. His feet seemed rooted to the floor.

She punched the wall. Hard. A sound somewhere between a roar and a sob burst from her chest over the crunch that came as her knuckles connected, and Alistair was by her side in an instant, his gauntlets discarded on the floor with a clang. She hadn’t lost control like this since Redcliffe, when she had found out the attack on Highever had been driven by political manoeuvring instead of simple greed.

“Let me see –”

She winced away from him again. “I’m fine,” she snapped, though the fist she cradled to her chest shook and dropped scarlet blots on the floor.

So he waited. He watched her pace, then turn and pace the other way as she tried and failed to wring out the rage she could not quash behind her noble’s mask. Her borrowed dress, worn to reduce the threat of her appearance, swished around her ankles with every step.

“Rosslyn –”

“It’s not fair!” she shouted, as if her name had been the catalyst for the explosion. “How much more are they going to take from us? How much have we given, only for them to ask for more and more and more again until there’s nothing left? Isn’t it enough that we’re destined to go mad and die surrounded by corpses in the Deep Roads? And now this!” She stopped pacing, and dragged her uninjured hand through her hair with enough force to yank out the pins Isolde’s maid had placed there that morning, turning away from him.

“Rosslyn…”

“Every time I think we’re ahead – every time I think we’re going to win and make it through this – something else comes along and just…” Her head dropped behind the shield of her hand, her shoulders tensed so they wouldn’t shake. Even without seeing him, she felt Alistair behind her, and at last pressed close into his chest, despite the awkward bulk of his armour. The heavy plate jutted into her body at the wrong angles, but it was warm from his heat and the weight of his arms felt like the safest thing in the world.

“We’re not going to die,” he told her. “Not for a good long while.”

She pulled back from the embrace as if to protest, but the words died in her throat. Instead, her hand reached up to cup the edge of his jaw, brushing over the pulse point below his ear before changing direction to trace over the angles of his cheek and the trailing curve of his eyebrow. His eyes were warm as embers as he rubbed away the trace of tears along the edge of her nose, offering a small smile when she leaned forward again and nestled into the crook of his neck.

“We’ll have to get Wynne to look at this,” he muttered, tenderly bringing her broken hand up for inspection.

She rolled her head to watch his ministrations. “To be fair, I ignore the impulse to hit things far more often than I succumb to it.” The joking tone fell flat. “Alistair… what are we going to do?”

His fingers twisted into her hair, the scent of it something he never wanted to be without.

“If Riordan wants Loghain for the Grey Wardens, then that’s what he’ll get,” he decided. “And then that traitor can die a better death than he deserves.” He pressed his cheek closer into her temple, hating the idea of Loghain’s taint on Duncan’s memory, but knowing what he would hate more.

“It’s not the same,” she pointed out. “An execution is not the same as throwing a man to the wolves. We’d have to live with that.”

“I won’t lose you.”

She sniffed, tracing patterns on the back of his neck. “You sound so certain.”

“Didn’t you see that duel back there in the throne room? That means I’m a king now. Kings know these things.”

“We haven’t even crowned you yet,” she huffed, “and it’s already gone to your head.”

“I’m a fast learner.” He chuckled. “Besides, when this is all over, you’ll still be here to keep me…”

She felt him tense and leaned back, her own worries forgotten in concern for him. “What is it?”

Not quite ready to answer, he let his hands slide down from their place on the back of her neck, ghosting over her ribs until they settled on her waist. Through the thin layers of velvet and silk he felt the shift of muscles conditioned by years of training and months of battle, great strength tempered by softness only he was allowed to see. He could tell from the curious tilt of her head the expression he would find in her eyes, but his gaze had focussed on her lips and refused to lift higher. He hadn’t been this uncertain with her for months, but now his heart pounded within his chest.

“Alistair?”

“I was just thinking…”

She hummed. “Clearly. About what?”

“What you looked like standing out there in front of the Landsmeet.” His thumbs traced small circles over her hips. “You were – I can’t even describe it, and that’s _me_ , the person who never shuts up, lost for words. It seems to happen a lot when I’m around you,” he added. “Maybe this isn’t the best time, with all this doom hanging over us – or maybe it’s the perfect time, because maybe it’s hope that’ll see us through the next few days – but… I looked at you and I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. All this talk of me being king and I didn’t _think_.”

He glanced up finally to find her watching him, patient but bemused, her earlier anger still traceable in the taut line of her jaw. There was nothing for it but outright confession.

“Love, when you were out there, winning everyone over to our side, I was in awe. I’ve always been in awe of you, ever since we met. But out there, you – you looked like a queen.”

Rosslyn looked prepared to retort, but her breath refused to leave her lungs.

“When I'm crowned, I'll need to get married as well. Eamon more or less told me as much – and it wasn’t a pleasant conversation, believe me,” he added. “But if I can’t have you… I don’t want anyone else, and I can’t do this without you.”

“You could, you know,” she replied slowly, running a hand along his arm. “You’ve never been the fool you try to play.”

“Is that a no?”

She snickered, nervous. “I don’t recall hearing a question.”

“Don’t you? I – Maker’s breath – can I start again?”

She shook her head, biting her lips together to stifle her smile.

“Cruel woman,” he accused fondly, even as he tucked her uninjured hand in his and lifted it to brush a kiss along the knuckles. His lips lingered there, too entranced by the softness of her skin against the pad of his thumb and the weight of the words on his tongue.

Then, with a deep inhale, he found his voice.

"Will you marry me?"

\--

White-knuckled, staring down at a map in an upper back room of the Gnawed Noble, Alistair clung to the memory of Rosslyn’s answer like a talisman, nodding every time Leonas Bryland paused for breath despite having long since ceased to listen. He had felt the death of the archdemon like a punch to the gut, had seen the pillar of light rise into the sky from the top of Fort Drakon and explode outwards in a ring of fire. Even now, the panic of the surviving darkspawn writhed beneath his skin, the influence of the taint churning with the little food he had managed to swallow that morning, and with his own, gnawing worry.

She was up there. She was in the middle of everything, still fighting. How was he supposed to care about casualty reports or troop movements when she was _out there_ , lost amid piles of flaming rubble and streets lined with charred, arrow-stung corpses. The last reports to reach him had mentioned that she and her party had been seen, all still alive, carving a path to the dark mouth of Fort Drakon’s door. Someone had told him Riordan was dead; he had downed the beast but not killed it. Someone else had brought word that a survivor had limped out of the tower, babbling about demons, genlock assassins, and endless ranks of the walking dead.

He had faith that she would make it – after all, he had seen her scythe through swarms of hurlocks like they were flies, had watched as she leapt and felled an ogre with a single blow. But against such odds… Dark thoughts led trails through his mind and he had to grit his teeth against them.

All he knew was that the archdemon was dead… which meant a Grey Warden was dead. Only two Grey Wardens had entered Fort Drakon. What if one had fallen to the monsters within, forcing the other on to make that final, terrible choice? As Alistair’s imagination shied away from one possibility, it grated against the other, trapping his thoughts in an endless loop of Rosslyn, alone, bleeding out in a corridor surrounded by the bodies of those she had slain; or Rosslyn, screaming as her soul was devoured, burned from the inside out by the archdemon’s taint.

 _Stop it_.

He must have made a noise, because Bryland paused and asked him if he was well. He hardly knew how he answered. Instead, he forced himself to remember: the silk of Rosslyn’s hair, of her laugh; the way she towered over those who tried to intimidate her and listened with tender care to those who needed help; how her thighs wrapped around his waist when they made love. Nobody with so much life in them could die. Nobody who shined as brightly as she did could _die_.

A change in the ambient noise outside made Alistair look up from his maps. He hushed Bryland with a curt wave of his hand, trying to work out the difference. Before, there had only been the lyrical cadence of the Chant being sung over the dead, discordant with the crows and the clangs of dropped swords thrown in piles for easier counting, but now something else threaded into the melody, a growing swell of voices coming from the south that sounded like a salute.

“Your Majesty, wait!”

Alistair had already clattered down the stairs. Nobles and officers waiting for audience in the taproom hastily stepped back when it became clear he wouldn’t be slowed down, so intent on the door that calls and restraining touches alike brushed off him like oil over water. They could only follow, confused, as he stumbled into the street.

The marketplace had been levelled, the fountain at its centre cracked into the shape of a jagged tooth that leaked sooty water like a wound. Alistair sprang to the top of the chantry steps for a better view, wanting to be certain of his direction, heedless of judgemental eyes. The flattened buildings allowed sound to carry, but it echoed strangely in the gathering dusk. The sound was growing louder – coming closer, then – but he still couldn’t tell whether it heralded victory or outrage, and for a wild moment he felt like locking himself in the chantry, just so he wouldn’t have to find out.

And then _she_ appeared, one hand in her dog’s ruff, with Eamon, Sten, Wynne, and Leliana following behind with the rest of the soldiers that had gathered behind them on the long walk back. She was limping. She clutched her ribs as if they pained her. Her hair had been singed and darkspawn ichor dulled the sheen of her armour, but Alistair saw nothing beyond the fact that she was alive. He only realised he had shouted her name when she looked up, dazed, searching for the source of the noise. When she spotted him, her face split into a grin and she moved forward with new energy, but her injured leg had stiffened too much since the battle and she didn’t it twenty feet before he was gathering her up in his arms, not bothering to quell the tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Don’t tell me you were worried,” she croaked when she finally mastered herself enough for speech.

He hugged her tighter. “Not for a minute.”

They stayed wrapped together, eyes squeezed shut, jaws and fists clenched because how else could they express such vast relief that Fate had decided to be kind? The crowd fell away, the stench of smoke and voided bowels and blood lost in the feeling of strong arms and warm breath and hair tickling the nose. When they did pull out of the embrace, they did not part. Alistair raked his eyes over Rosslyn’s face, anxious for damage. She reassured him with a tired smile, her hand tracing the deep cut a shriek had gouged across his left cheek.

Someone coughed behind them.

Loghain’s body had been placed on a bier held at each corner by Redcliffe soldiers, the peaceful expression on his face a contrast to the greasy black soot and viscera that covered his armour.

“What should we do with him, Your Majesty?” Eamon asked.

Alistair looked at Rosslyn.

“He was noble at the last,” she murmured. “Just as the stories always said.”

He nodded and turned to Eamon. “Take him to the palace. He saved us all – he should have a fitting funeral.”

In silence, the king and his future queen watched as the stretcher was carried past them, more aware than most of what Loghain had saved by his sacrifice. Many of the soldiers who had come to see the fallen hero followed as Eamon’s men marched west, until at last the two of them were left alone, just another bit of flotsam let go by the tide of war.

Rosslyn sighed, bone-weary.

“What’s that for?” Alistair asked, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “We made it.”

Smiling, she pressed her forehead into the curve of his jaw. “We did…”

She had told him once that there would always be more battles to fight. Tomorrow, they would start to rebuild; they would stand upon a platform before a pyre and ring out speeches for the hero who had given his life in service for his country, and they would do so knowing who had sent him to his death. They would have to live with the guilt of it.

That was later. For now, in the smoking aftermath with only each other to cling to, it was enough to know that they would live.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading - Let me know what you thought!


End file.
